Sick, Sick, Sick
by TillThatTime
Summary: It seems everything she does nowadays is only for him. That’s why she buries her face in the pillows and pretends not to hear the broken syllables of a name that is not hers panted from above. Distorted Troyella, with a very dark theme. ONESHOT


**Disclaimer:** Standard disclaimers apply.

**A/N:** Heh, the main reason for writing this story is just to see how much more fucked up I can make a Disney movie then I already have. Anyways, the theme of this story is never clearly stated, but it is not hard to figure out, and anybody who has read my previous work should get it almost immediately. This is not for children, and the theme is something that will probably not be well-received, but eh, I don't really care if you want to read it and you shit kittens when you realize how very imperfect this relationship is. Anyways, this is very dark and flames are entirely welcome, and not at all unexpected. I just ask for a level of maturity and a little bit of originality if you do flame me.

P.S. It's supposed to be vague and hard to follow.

**Warning:** Very dark. Depictions of sex, though non-graphic.

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_Lose the halo, don't need to resist. A lick of the lips and a grip on your hips.- Sick Sick Sick, by Queens of the Stone Age_

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Sick, Sick, Sick

She's beautiful.

Or so she has been told many times before. Even when she was having to bear the brunt of vicious teasing as "that freaky math girl" no one ever denied her looks, accused her of being ugly, unattractive, repulsive or any of those other various words that had never been used to describe her.

With him she is even more beautiful.

As they walk, hands intertwined, looks of feigned bliss on their faces, and harsh jealousy on everyone else's, she feels…beautiful…

…and disgusting all at once.

Gorgeous, tainted, decadent and _used, _and days when she's feeling particularly spiteful she wishes that she could slap those envious faces off of her peers and demand that they see her for what she really is.

See _them_ for what they really are.

And…

She's always hated lies.

This is the aspect of her personality that runs rampant through her hazed mind as she lies on her stomach, his weight resting on top of her as his breathing returns to normal; hot, heavy and sick.

She wants to push him off of her and turn in his arms all at once, but she can never choose which, so she always just lays there, waiting for him to get off of her, waiting for him to hold her, waiting for him to tell the truth.

She gets so sick of waiting sometimes.

She doesn't like to be on her hands and knees before him, she would much rather turn and face him, so she could see his face, and he could see hers, and then there would be no denying, no pretending.

She hates doing it that way, hates being _fucked_ that way, hates knowing that _fucking_ is the only proper word to describe what they do. It hurts, both physically and mentally, and she knows and he must know, that she only does it for him.

Would only do it for him.

It seems everything she does nowadays is only…for him.

That's why she buries her face in the pillows and pretends not to hear the broken syllables of a name that is not hers panted from above.

She doesn't even think he tries to hide them anymore.

He leaves the lying up to her.

He doesn't want to look at her face. He wants in those wasted minutes of bliss to be able to envision a body that is not her own. At first she had thought it was because of who she is, now the blame falls solely on _what_ she is.

As they lay in that position she thinks back to only moments ago when he had thrust into her with abandon, concern for what she was feeling gone completely from his mind, and he had grabbed her arms and pulled them behind her back, her face falling flat and harshly against the soft fabric of his sheets with no support to hold her up, and though she couldn't see his face she knew his eyes had focused on her hands. A hiss had broken through the air filled with pants and groans. He was angry. Angry for being taken from his reverie, angry for being reminded.

"I hate it when you paint your nails."

Those words were cruel, and full of truth, and as she sobbed in pleasure and pain she made a note to wash off the nail polish when she got home.

And even now as she heaves a sigh of relief and abandonment as he rolls off her, his back turned away from her, she notices the way her makeup has smudged onto his white pillowcase and sheet.

She isn't surprised when she finds them in his trashcan the next day.

She sees a bit of the white hanging over the edge of the can and it's as if he is mocking her because he doesn't even try to hide it from her. He's mentally slapping her across the face and refusing to look apologetic for it afterwards.

There are brand new sheets already on his bed, and she makes another mental note to stop wearing makeup when she comes over. After all, it would mean less money that he would have to spend, and she only wants the best for him.

And…

She can no longer make him hard.

Only his own hands and his own images seem to do the trick, and he asks her to look away from him as he does it, or sometimes he even leaves the room. She isn't sure if it's because he's ashamed or if looking at her would keep him from getting there at all. She doesn't want to know the answer.

He does the work, and she's just there to receive the finish.

She fears the day when she can't even do that.

The same day that the mantra in his mind of a body that is not hers, ceases to be enough.

He excuses himself from the room, giving her a meaningful look before he exits and feeling that she wants to be of some help, she opens his drawer in order to find a condom.

She freezes, her hand trembles on the knob.

There's an assortment of sex toys in the drawer, some she recognizes, others she doesn't, and some that she's never seen but she knows what they must be for. A tube of lubricant lays amongst the items, emptier then the last time they had used it, and she knows he's not cheating on her, well at least not physically, so that could only mean one thing. Her chuckle rings through the room, cold and mirthless. She would like to be appalled and embarrassed by thinking that her boyfriend had some weird kink that he wanted to try on her.

But that would mean that they were meant for her in the first place.

She laughs harder.

He walks abruptly back into the room, but she doesn't jump in surprise. She only turns and looks at him, her eyes dead. Any accusation would be pointless at this point. He looks startled for a moment, a glint of terror shining in his green eyes, but his face relaxes soon after. He shrug is unapologetic and lacking of an explanation, and she just nods and closes the drawer, her hands already reaching up to undo the buttons of her blouse.

She loves him dearly after all.

After they're finished, he does something that he hasn't done in awhile. He turns her to face him, one hand hesitantly raising to rest on her hip, and she thinks that now, when their bodies are not intimately joined and there's no passion in their moments, is the only time he can see her for what she is and what she can never be. His hand moves to brush her hair away from her face as it clings to her sweat slicked forehead, and his smile is falsely affectionate, and completely appreciative, because he must know what she does for him.

"You're beautiful."

__

Not to you.

"Especially to me."

__

You're lying.

"I love you."

And for those words she wishes to hit him, because he can deny and use her all he wants, but she doesn't want to hear those words, never again, not now that she knows that they will never be true. Not now that she knows that they are only a pity a prize.

"Stop it." The conviction in her whisper is firm.

"Ok."

They roll away from each other then, for her so she can raise up and begin to get dressed and for him so he can go to sleep without so much as a simple word of goodbye to her as she closes the door and exits his room quietly once more.

Sometimes, when everything hurts more than usual, she wonders if he has trouble sleeping at night.

She doesn't think he does.

She's happy that he can find rest so easily, it wouldn't do for him to lose sleep when he has to play God to all the lesser beings at school.

She smiles.

Along with his flavor, it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

And…

She loves when they sing together. Loves it almost as much as she loves him, because it seems to be the only time he genuinely loves her.

Because when they are playing their roles, they are not who they really are. He can love her for who she is because she is no longer Gabriella, and he can love her for _what_ she is because he is no longer himself.

She loves when they sing.

Even as she vomits into the porcelain toilet at school because she realizes that he's kissed her more passionately in rehearsal than he ever has outside of the stage, she loves when they sing.

And…

She hates when they watch movies together.

She watches as the two mouths on screen mesh together, tongues intertwining and tangling with slick sounds of lust in a lewd display of affection.

Calloused hands and two firm bodies press together, their moans of joy a lower pitch then hers ever could be.

He pretends to be disgusted, his voice laced with scorn as he speaks of what he has been taught is right and wrong in the world and what he does not believe, but his eyes stay glued to the screen, shifting slightly as his pants become uncomfortable for him, and she knows.

They both do.

So why does he continue to hide it?

She grabs his face and he reluctantly turns to face her, his eyes darting back and forth between her and the screen, and she seals her lips over his own, her tongue thrusting and forcing its way into his mouth in a poor imitation of the act the two lovers are engaging in on the screen. She looks for reassurance that she knows she will never find in that kiss, and she thinks it's almost funny that the two actors on screen are far more believable then they could ever hope to be.

He kisses her back obediently, his eyes cut to the television the entire time.

And…

They go on dates like a normal couple, sometimes to the movie or out to dinner, and they often see their classmates on these outings. Their 'friends' stop to say hi and their smiles are broad, because there are just so happy to be able to witness perfection hand in hand, compared to their own lackluster relationships. They say phrases like "oh, you are both just so cute together." and he smiles back politely, pulling her closer to him as he replies that he's just so lucky to be with her.

That bastard…

She smiles as well.

This time they are out at the pool, basking in the feel of cool water against their skin on this feverish day, and she points to a girl in a skimpy red bikini, her face is pretty and her ass cheeks are hanging out.

"Do you think she's pretty?" She asks, and any other time it would have just been a girlfriend asking her boyfriend out of insecurity and an attempt for a cheap compliment, but now it's only used to prove a point.

He grunts a noncommittal reply, and any other time it would have just been a boyfriend trying the ensure his girlfriend that she is the only one he thinks is pretty, but now his eyes are too focused on the hard lines of another body, and she wordlessly turns and begins to apply more sunscreen.

And…

She has been raised to believe it is wrong, raised to believe that _he_ is wrong. She remembers lectures her mother had given her on the "evils" of this world, and she shakes her head to rid herself of those memories as she walks in on him jerking off to the magazines she already knew were hidden under his bed.

She wordlessly begins to get undressed.

He's already hard anyways.

And she muses to herself that who he is, is ok because she loves him, because love doesn't hold any bias, and she would do anything for him.

Anything he wordlessly asks of her.

Anything to hold onto the man she never had.

Hasn't she already proven that?

She lays flat on her back, waiting. She repeats in her head how much she loves him, and she stills when she hears the words in her head echoed by his voice.

"I love you."

Why does he insist on saying that?

She turns to him, her eyes cold and pleading at the same time. "Stop saying that. Please, just stop. I already know, Troy…_I already know._"

He stares at her for what seems like eternity, his eyes narrowed and his jaw set firm, and then he mutters "Turn over."

She does so, her body already moving into the position it has taken so many times before, and she realizes that the contempt she once held for the position has morphed into familiarity and empty acceptance.

And…

She's beautiful this way. She's so fucking beautiful.

And…

Sometimes she wishes he would just tell her that she wasn't.

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End file.
